If Only.

 

If I could deliver a rose

to remind you of me every day,

fashion your face with my fingers,

tenderly sculpt you in clay.

       If I could imagine your touch,

disturbing the still of the lake,

and study your artistic features,

distinguishing you from a fake.

 

       I’d be guilty as I stand accused,

in finding I have no defence,

rewriting my dire composition,

in the hope I can alter the tense.

      I’m finding I pause when you pass,

tasting your balm on the breeze,

feeling my arteries pulsing,

the feed to my heart soon to cease.

 

     When the carpet in fields stand tall

and the scent it appears to be yours,

my poetry stutters and dries,

the wording and rhyme take a pause.

      I am guilty my darling am I

 and continue to yearn and to pine.

Please acknowledge my amourous efforts,

respond to my want and be mine.